


Sorry about that

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Napoleon fucks Illya's throat raw.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I don't even know folks, after two years of barely writing I suddenly get the urge to write smut ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Fill for this [prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=1175168#cmt1175168)

Napoleon grunts as Illya swallows him down, hands flying to the blond hair and grasping, tight. His hips twitch forward, pushing deeper, reflexively, uncontrollably, the feeling of Illya's throat working around his dick overwhelming any considerate though. 

Illya's nose is buried in Napoleon's pubic hair and his eyes shine with moisture, unnaturally blue as he looks up at Napoleon almost calmly. Napoleon cards his fingers through Illya's hair, fingers curling, pulling sharply, until tears gather in the corners of Illya's eyes. "God, you're gorgeous."

Illya closes his eyes, wet lashes sticking together and hums. He sweeps him palms up Napoleon's trembling thighs until he has handful of the firm ass and guides Napoleon into thrusting, urging him on. The tips of his fingers slip to Napoleon's crack, catch on his hole and Napoleon bucks against him, cock almost slipping out of Illya's mouth.

"Fuck, Illya." Napoleon gasps and then frantically thrusts back into the pressure and warmth of Illya throat. And again. And again. Until his thrusts are quick but deep and Illya's hands fall down the touch himself through the fabric of his boxers.

"Oh fuck you love it," Napoleon forces out in between the laboured breaths. "On your knees, mouth wide open and you love it, don't you. Fuck, oh- How are you even real."

Illya's eyes are red-rimmed and brimming with tears now, damp hair plastered to his forehead, and he meets Napoleon's gaze and _moans_ around the cock in his mouth, wanton and unreserved and Napoleon is gone. Hands around Illya's head he just takes and takes, fucking his face mindlessly, chasing after his own release.

Illya's throat constricts around him a few times, like he's choking, like he can't breathe and there's saliva running down his chin, tears down his cheeks, but he never taps Napoleon's leg, never so much as struggles against the iron grip of Napoleon's hands. He takes it beautifully and Napoleon would tell him so, tell him how good he is, if he had the breath left.

Napoleon feels his balls tightening and heat pooling low in his stomach and he gives a few last, desperate trusts and then he's coming, cock deep in Illya's throat, pulsing and pulsing until there's not one drop of come left in him. Until he feels wrung out and boneless and too heavy to stands.

Gently, he pulls out, extricating his fingers from Illya's hair and falls heavily on his knees next to the other man. His kneecaps protest, but he's too tired to care.

Illya's face is a mess. Red blotches on cheeks, wet with tears a saliva, lips obscenely puffy, and he's looking at Napoleon with frightening intensity. Broad palms wrap around Napoleon's neck and Illya drags him into an urgent kiss, body pressing closer and Napoleon's hand meets a rock hard cock between Illya's legs.

"Oh, sweetheart," Napoleon whispers, fingers wrapping around the hardness, "Come here, let me take care of you."

With one arm wrapped around Illya's back he supports the man in a half hug. Illya's head falls to Napoleon's shoulder and with Napoleon's hand stroking him, Illya's hips rocking forward desperately, it only takes a moment until Illya gasps and shudders, coming all over Napoleons hand, and then slumps against him, exhausted.

It's tempting, Napoleon thinks, to wrap his arms around his so uncharacteristically pliant lover and hold him, it's so tempting, but the floor isn't exactly comfortable, and there's a bed right there with a soft mattress and nice blankets.

"Illya? C'mon. Bed." 

Illya grumbles something unintelligible, but does unfold himself from Napoleon and makes his way to the bathroom. Napoleon wipes his hand into a discarded undershirt, and makes directly for the bed, sinking into the puffy pillows with a soft sigh. He fights the sleep making his eyelids heavy though, waits until the the water stops running in the bathroom, until Illya crawls under the blankets next to him. Napoleon curls on his side to face him, touching his fingers to Illya's hand, laid flat on the bed between them.

"Okay?"

Illya meets his gaze and unexpectedly there's something shy in his smile. "Yes," he says. Or tries to. It come out painfully wheezy. Like he can't-

"Oh," Napoleon says, and he ought to feel guilty perhaps, but instead he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry about that."

"It's alright, Cowboy," Illya whispers," I enjoyed it."

Napoleon bridges the distance between them and kisses Illya on the lips, sweet and gentle and lingering, and worms his way into Illya's arms, making himself comfortable.

"Do you want me to make you tea, or something?" He mumbles, half-heartedly.

"Yes." Illya states. Napoleon feels him smiling against his skin.

"Mhm, in the morning."

Illya chuckling is the last thing Napoleon hears before falling asleep.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Gaby doesn't buy the "Illya caught cold and got sore throat" tale next morning. She knows what's up.


End file.
